


Rose Tint My World

by Kypros



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: And is also a little bit gay, Gen, Good Babysitter Steve Harrington, Halloween Costumes, M/M, Mother Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington Friendship, Rocky Horror Picture Show References, Steve is the ultimate hypocrite when it comes to underage drinking, Typical Dustin and Steve shenanigans, halloween party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 07:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21295745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kypros/pseuds/Kypros
Summary: Or: the Party needs Steve to take them to a super cool,totallytame underage-kids Halloween house party. Robin, much to Steve's dismay, suggests that theyallgo, and Steve ends up making out with some random hot chick in the upstairs bedroom.
Relationships: Jonathan Byers/Steve Harrington
Comments: 2
Kudos: 110





	Rose Tint My World

**Author's Note:**

> Hey look; it's another story in an iffy timeline! One where the kids are a little bit older and Steve (precious, precious Steve) is trying to kill everyone's fun by being _responsible!_ That's like, lame Steve, totally lame.

“So, Steve…there’s this party,” Dustin announced, and Steve blinked, looking up from the latest page of the comic book he was reading.

“At Tracy Atwoods house,” Will supplied helpfully.

“A Halloween party,” Max chimed in.

Steve blinked again and licked his finger, turning the page of the comic book and refocused his attention on the Man of Steel himself, Superman. Things were getting just getting interesting, and it looked like Lois Lane might finally figure out Clark Kent's secret identity…

“_Hey!_” Mike suddenly snapped, snatching the comic book straight out of Steve’s hand. “Don’t do that! You’re ruining the pages!”

Steve frowned and rolled his eyes. What a little shit.

“_Anyways_,” Dustin said, continuing on and ignoring Mike who was huffily stuffing his comic book back into one of the many milk crates next to the TV. “So this party is at Tracy Atwoods house—,”

“You already said that, Henderson,” Steve drawled. “Get to the point.”

“Well, we got invited,” Lucas informed him.

“—actually, El got invited,” Max butted in. Steve turned to Eleven, as if he didn’t quite believe that the strange albeit cute little telepath had somehow managed to score a Halloween party invite. To his surprise, she nodded her head and let out a monotoned:

“Yes. Tracy Atwood invited me yesterday.”

_Huh,_ Steve thought. Colour me surprised.

“_Anyways_,” Dustin said again, for what must be the third or forth time. He was really taking his sweet ass time beating around the bush, Steve thought, and rolled his eyes.

“Today, Henderson,” he sighed.

“So we’re totally all gonna crash it together,” Max gushed. 

“And we want you to come with us,” Dustin grinned.

“_Yeah!_” the rest of the gang chimed in. Except Mike. Mike was still fussing over his _precious _comic book collection, leafing through each and every one of them as though he somehow thought Steve had damaged _all _of them by means of his wet thumb.

“Nope. Not happening kiddos’,” Steve shrugged. He propped his feet up on the coffee table and grabbed at the nearest bag of chips. They were plain, but Steve couldn’t have expected much else: they were at the Wheeler's house, after all.

Around him, there was a collective explosion of whiney: _“Steve!”s_ and _“Why not?”s_ and Steve sighed, popping a salty potato chip into his mouth.

“I’m like, twenty you guys,” he explained, crunching on the chips. “Way too old to be hanging out at a high school kids party.”

“But not too old to interlope in my basement every other weekend,” Mike huffed under his breath.

Steve frowned. _Seriously_—what a little shit.

“_C’mon_, Steve,” Dustin pleaded. “We need you there!”

“Yeah, Steve!”

“Please, Steve?”

“Steve!”

“_Why?_” Steve asked carefully, crunching on another potato chip. Something was up and Steve could just _feel _it.

“Because you’re like the coolest person we know,” Dustin wheedled, nudging Lucas in the side.

“Debatable,” Mike whispered quietly.

Steve’s eyes narrowed. Okay—this kid was seriously looking for a good ass kicking.

“You’re super cool!” Max beamed.

“Totally rad,” Eleven added, although from her tone of voice, Steve couldn’t tell if she actually meant it or not.

“And we need you to buy us alcohol,” Lucas shrugged. Collectively, the gang turned on him, their eyes magically morphing into furious little slits that could kill someone with their sharpness alone.

“LUCAS!” Max yelled.

“What the _shit_, dude?” Dustin flailed.

“Why would you tell him that!?”

“Language,” Steve reprimanded quietly, but was ignored.

“_Please_, Steve,” Dustin suddenly pleaded, turning his attention back to the real quest at hand: finding an adult source to buy their underage asses sweet, sweet booze.

“Nope: I already told you, I’m not doing it.” He dipped his hand back into the bag of chips, and with the other, he grabbed the remote from the coffee table and turned on the TV. The Wheeler's had an upgraded cable package, which meant every two weeks Steve was treated to the latest episode of hot chicks running around on sandy beaches—aka Baywatch.

Next to him, Dustin flopped down and grabbed the remote back, turning off the TV.

“Why not?”

“Because a) that’s illegal,” Steve rhymed off. “And b) I don’t want to spend my free time babysitting a bunch of fifteen-year old’s who are going to drink too much and end up spending the entire night curled over a toilet.”

“Curled over a toilet?" El asked in bewilderment.

“He means puking,” Will informed her helpfully.

“You’re so _lame,_ Steve,” Dustin announced. “When did you get so lame?”

“Totally lame,” Max added.

“A real loser,” Lucas nodded.

“Finally something we can agree on,” Mike smirked.

Steve felt himself bristle. This fucking _kid._

“I’m not lame,” he grinded out, grabbing the remote back from Dustin. Dustin instantly snatched it back and Steve sighed.

“Gimme the remote, Henderson. You know what time it is.”

“No.”

“I said _give me the remote_, Henderson.”

“No_pe_.”

Steve turned and eyed the clock: it was one minute to 5 o’clock and he was going to miss the opening montage!

“_Fine_!” Steve snapped. “If I agree to go to your stupid party will you give the damn remote back?”

"_And_ buy us alcohol,” Dustin added.

“Fine,” Steve sighed and then slapped his hand down onto the couch cushion next to Dustin. “Remote. Now. Gimme.”

Dustin dropped the remote back into Steve’s waiting hand and he and rest of the gang high-fived.

“This is gonna be _so_ sweet,” Dustin grinned.

Steve turned on the TV just in time and was met by the glorious sight of Pamela Anderson running down the length of a warm Miami beach, her blonde hair blowing in the wind. Oh, and there was her co-star too, David Hasselhoff—but Steve didn't really watch Baywatch for him. Most of the time.

“I’m only buying you guys a six pack,” Steve then informed them, his eyes glued to the TV.

A collective chorus of: _“WHAT!?”_ rose from the depths of the basement.

“There’s six of you,” Steve said distractedly. Damn—did Pamela’s breasts get even bouncier this week? Was that even possible? “So you get one beer each.”

“You’re so lame, Steve!” Dustin whined.

“I told you we should have tried asking Jonathan,” Mike grumbled.

“At least Jonathan can be _cool _sometimes_,” _Lucas sniffed.

“Ask him tonight, Will,” Mike said, turning to the youngest Byers.

Next to the boys, Max flopped down dramatically onto the bean bag chair.

“This is bullshit,” she muttered, and El blinked quietly, like she didn’t quite get what the big deal was.

_What a bunch of drama queens,_ Steve thought errantly. On the TV screen, the opening credits faded and his eyes glazed over as the first commercial break cut in.

“Oh, and don’t even try asking Jonathan either,” he added, stuffing another handful of chips into his mouth. “I’m telling him as soon as I leave here what sneaky shenanigans you guys are up to. You’re lucky I’m buying you any alcohol at all.”

Collectively, the group groaned.

“You suck, Steve,” Dustin announced. “Like really, really hard.”

Unfazed, Steve rolled his eyes and grabbed another handful of potato chips.

“Quite, you little shit—it’s Baywatch time.”

\---

“So a high school kids Halloween party,” Robin drawled.

“Yep,” Steve repeated, licking his lips.

“And you told them you would buy them alcohol,” Nancy quizzed, raising a lone brow.

“Yep.” 

“That seems like a bad idea,” Jonathan added and Nancy nodded in agreement, only she missed the slight smirk that was creeping up on the corner of Jonathan’s lips.

“I’m getting them a six pack,” Steve told them with a shrug and across the table, Jonathan let out a loud snort.

“Six beer, six kids,” Robin smirked. “You’re mean, Steve. No wonder those kids called you lame.”

Steve felt himself bristle again, but ignored the comment and took another bite of his burger.

“We should go,” Nancy suddenly announced, and both Robin and Jonathan shot her this _look_—like, why the hell would we go to a high school kids Halloween party, huh Nancy?

Nancy peered around the table and after seeing everyone’s less than impressed inquisitive faces, she shrunk a little in her sit before straightening herself up and pushed forward with the idea. Typical Nancy.

“It’s their first real high school party,” Nancy explained, chewing on her lip anxiously. “And Steve did say there would be alcohol…”

“Kids in high school drink alcohol, Nance’,” Steve reminded her. “_We _were kids in high school who drank alcohol.”

“Some more than others,” Jonathan smirked and Steve frowned, glaring across the table at oldest Byers boy.

“At least I had a little fun in my youth,” Steve sniffed.

“You’re barely twenty, Harrington,” Jonathan deadpanned. “Don’t tell me you’ve been yelling at kids for stepping on your lawn.”

Much to Steve’s chagrin, both Nancy and Robin suppressed very obvious giggles. _Jerks._

“_Ooo,_ we could dress up,” Robin then suggested, grinning brightly. “Show those little brats how real costumes are supposed look.”

Next to her, Nancy beamed, her face lighting up like a little kid on Christmas morning. “What about a group costume!”

Next to her, Jonathan shrugged.

“A group costume could be fun,” he slowly acquiesced.

_Oh god_, Steve groaned. As if this was actually happening. He hadn’t meant for them to actually get _excited _about this. Hell—he had planned to drop off the gang of brats at Tracy-Whats-Her-Name’s house with their shitty six pack of beer, maybe cruise around for a few hours, hit up the bowling alley, come back and drive them home. Now Nancy and Robin were planning a full-on gate-crashing party with matching outfits and everything. Fuck.

“—sounds good Steve?”

Steve blinked. Shit—he had zoned out again.

“Huh?”

“The Rocky Horror Picture Show,” Nancy repeated. “Sounds good?”

Steve blinked again, furrowing his brows. He didn’t have a _clue_ what they were talking about.

“Sure,” he shrugged. “Sounds good.”

Not.

\---

Getting all the kids to the Halloween party was a pain in the ass because Steve’s BMW only seated 5 people tops, and altogether there were ten of them. So it was decided that Jonathan would drive one group of kids, including Nancy, and that he and Robin would drive the rest of them over.

“Your costume sucks,” Dustin told him, his voice garbled and heavy sounding through the latex veneer of his grotesque looking mask. He was supposed to be an alien from Star Wars, Steve thought. Or was it Star Trek? Some guy with forehead ridges and a thick, bushy beard. It didn’t matter—Steve thought Dustin’s costume made him look like a brown, blobby potato.

“Shut it, Henderson,” Steve said, straightening out the white waist coast of his 3-piece suit. Robin had picked it up for him from a local thrift shop and it kind of smelled like moth balls, but otherwise, it didn’t look bad. Except for the fact that she wouldn’t let him wear a dress shirt with it. That, and because Steve refused to shave the hair on his forehead back (and at Dustin’s _wonderful_ suggestion) she had made him slick his hair back with like, ten pounds of gel. It was how the costume was _supposed _to look, she assured him. Steve looked down at himself and then into the mirror again—Dustin was right. His costume kind of sucked and he didn’t really get it.

“You should really let me darken your eye area a bit,” Robin stated, pressing a hand to her hip. She was dressed in a black maid outfit with a white apron and had teased her hair into an impossible voluminous frizzy mess. He didn’t get her costume that much either—he thought at first she was going for the sexy French-maid look, but then she had powdered her face white, blackened her eyes and put on this awful garish red lipstick.

“No make up is touching my face,” Steve stated bluntly.

“C’mon dude, it’s Halloween,” Dustin said, pushing up his mask to rest on the curve of his forehead. His face was red and he was already sweating—wearing a full-on latex mask to a party probably wasn’t the smartest idea that he’d ever had. 

“No.” Steve was standing firm on this particular stance. No make up. No way.

Max peeked her head in from outside the bathroom door.

“You already use a ton of product on your hair, Steve,” she stated blithely. “What’s the difference between that and make up?”

“Little Red Riding Hood makes a good point,” Robin grinned, waggling a black stick of eyeliner in Steve’s face.

“And your character is supposed to look tired and dirty,” Dustin added. Steve turned to look at him—despite his sweatiness, he looked decidedly judgemental. Like as if he was somehow _pitying _Steve’s choice in costume, despite the fact that he was dressed as a blobby potato man in a space uniform!

“Don’t you have a mask or something I can just wear instead?” Steve diverted, turning to Robin.

Both Max and Dustin frowned.

“I have a black masquerade mask from last year,” Robin sighed, rolling her eyes. “But you’ll still need to darken your eyes. And maybe like…add some foundation to your cheeks. You’re not pale enough.”

“We can just tell them I’m the butler whose been on vacation,” Steve said flippantly.

“For the umpteenth time Steve,” Robin sighed again. “You’re not an actual butler, you’re—,”

From the kitchen there was a loud whoop and the slamming of cupboard doors.

“—holy shit, Max! Look at all this alcohol Steve has in his cupboards!”

Both Robin and Steve simultaneously turned around—both Max and Dustin were gone and Lucas, who had been suspiciously quiet since they arrived at the Harrington residence, was nowhere to be seen.

_Shit._

“You wrangle Max, and I’ll get Henderson and Lucas. There’s no way in hell we’re letting them bring hard liquor to this party,” Steve said through the grind of his teeth. Those friggin’ brats. Who the hell gave them permission to be rooting through his kitchen cupboards?

Next to him, Robin held back a snicker, biting down on her violently red-painted lips.

“You’re such a mom, Steve,” she smirked, crossing her arms. Judging him. Teasing him. Making him regret ever agreeing to this.

Steve shook his head and pushed past her, storming out into the hall.

“Henderson, I swear to god if you touched that vodka, my fist will be in your face!” he yelled out.

From the end of the hall and in the recesses of the kitchen, he was greeted by a chorus of not so subtle whispers and snickering, followed by a sudden: “_Shit_—he’s coming! Hide it!”

Steve ground his teeth harder and tried not to have a sudden debilitating aneurysm: after all, somebody had to be sober enough to keep those stupid kids heads’ from drowning in the toilet later.

\---

One stern, sit-on-the-couch-and-listen-up-brats lecture later, Steve, Robin, and his designated trio of children arrived at Tracy Whats-Her-Name’s house fashionably late. The party was already in full swing, the house packed to the gills and nobody even batted an eye when the decidedly older Robin and Steve slipped in behind Dustin, Lucas, and Max. It was so packed that Steve had a hard time even moving, let alone seeing anyone who vaguely resembled Nancy and Jonathan.

It would have helped if he knew what the hell they were dressed as, however. Knowing Nancy and Jonathan, however, they'd probably be something super lame, like clowns or cats.

Also, everyone was already completely wasted.

“Well, this is a complete shit show,” Steve whistled. He handed off the six pack of beer he had bought for the gang to Max, instructing them to share once they found everyone else, and watched mutely as the trio disappeared into the crowd of capes and masks.

“Oh, lighten up Steve,” Robin smiled, syrupy sweet and ribbing him in the side. “From the rumors I heard back in the day, you were a total boozehound at high school parties. King Steve, killer of kegs,” she teased.

“They’re too young,” Steve said firmly, eyes narrowing. A kid he recognized as the younger brother of a guy he used to play basketball with was downing shots like they were water.

“_Well_,” Robin smirked. “At least they’ve got you here to clean up their vomit.”

Steve screwed his eyes shut tight and let out a long, drawn out sigh.

“I’m gonna grab a drink,” Robin then announced. “I’m sure some dumb shit was stupid enough to leave their case of beer unattended. Want one?”

“Sure,” Steve nodded. It was going to be a long night and he sure as hell wasn’t going to go through this entire party completely sober. He turned, letting some kid dressed as a cheap bed sheet ghost squeeze by, and _oh_—there was an unattended case of beer right there!

“Hey Robin!” Steve said turning back—but it was too late. She was already gone and in between the crazy costumes and swerving of drunken teenagers, there was no chance in hell he was going to find her again. Shit. _Shit. _He had to stay put and wait for her to return.

Only then the kid brother of the guy he used to play basketball with noticed him and broke into a huge, sloppy drunken grin.

“Hey! I know you!” he beamed. “You’re Steve Harrington! Guys, it’s Steve Harrington! My brother says Steve was king of the keg!”

_Christ_, Steve thought. What’s the point in wearing a mask if people are still going to recognize you?

Like a group of frenzied, drunken tribespeople, a small group of teenagers started chanting:

_“Steve! Steve! Steve!”_

“Show us how it’s done Steve!” someone shouted.

“Yeah! Get him the beer funnel!”

Steve fidgeted.

“Actually guys, I’m here as a designated driver,” he told them, offering an apologetic look.

Instantly, he was met with a collective hollering of loud boos.

“You’re so lame, Steve!” someone called out.

“What happened to you?”

“King of the Keg? More like King of the Losers!”

Inside of him, he felt something snap and he clenched his fingers into tightly coiled fists. He wasn’t lame. He wasn’t! He was still fun! He wasn’t a loser! Having the gang of nerdy D&D kids call him lame was one thing…but all of the tenth grade of Hawkins High?

He grabbed a beer from the nearest flat surface and chugged it down in one go. The group of rowdy teenage boys went silent and Steve smashed the can down, crushing it with his fist.

“Bring me to the keg,” he instructed evenly, eyeing them all slowly. Lame? He’d show them lame. Which was something he was decidedly not.

\---

Two keg stands and the approval of a horde of drunken teenagers later, Steve found himself trying not to puke his guts out in the upstairs bathroom. He hadn’t done a keg stand in like…3 whole years, let alone two of them in a row, and also, his idea of partying on the weekends these days consisted of hanging out in the Wheeler's basement watching Baywatch with a bag of potato chips.

He stared at himself in the mirror, quietly sipping on a cup of water and realized what an absolute mess he looked like. His hair had fallen out of place and was clumped in gross, crunchy strands, while the white powder makeup he had finally allowed Robin to apply to his cheeks looked sort of splotchy and uneven after beer foam had dripped down his face.

He groaned. He knew he couldn’t stay in the bathroom forever, but at that exact moment, he really wanted to.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, his stomach settled and Steve slipped out into the dark hallway, pushing through the throng of drunken partygoers, most of whom were either too drunk to stand up or sloppily making out on the stairs. Man, this sucked. There wasn’t even anybody here he could make out with! Also, he hadn’t seen _any _of the kids since he got here, so for all he knew they were probably dead.

_You’re being dramatic_, the voice in his head chimed in. Steve shook his head and screwed his eyes shut, trying to push away the images of Dustin dead, passed out in a ditch.

When he opened his eyes again, it was then that he spotted her in the shadows: tall, great legs, tight ass, and the hottest looking costume he’d seen all night. This girl was wearing a full-on corset with a feather boa, fishnets and these _killer_ looking black heels. Mind you, she was a bit flat, but like…that ass. Even with the weird full on white face makeup and the masquerade mask, she was still hot. There was no way she was in high school, Steve thought. No way.

And it might have been because he was sort of drunk, and maybe because he was regretting every single decision he had made that led to him coming here tonight, but if he was going to be forced to attend this dumb Halloween party with a bunch of drunken kids, he might as well have a little bit of fun while doing it.

He steered himself towards her and knowing how awful he looked, in the deepest, coolest, sultriest voice he could manage, asked: “Please tell me you’re eighteen.”

The girl nodded, smiling back at him, and Steve just grinned. 

\---

_This is great_, Steve thought. _More than great: I’ve got a hot chick with a hot ass in killer heels and_—

Through the press of his lips, the girl he had pressed up against the wall in the dark of the upstairs bedroom moaned and it was decidedly unfeminine. In fact, it was probably the deepest, most gravelly moan Steve had ever heard in his life and what was worse was that it was uncannily familiar.

“What the _fuck—_is that _you_ Byers?!“

“Oh shit—_Steve?!_”

Instantly they pushed off one another in a tangle of frantic limbs and Steve tripped over a laundry basket, landing ass flat on the floor

He looked up—the girl—or rather, not girl—was peeling off the black masquerade mask, and _yep_—it was Jonathan.

Steve felt his entire chest seize up in an overwhelming conflagration of panic and he tore off his own mask, letting out a choked gasp. _Christ_, his brain screamed. _Why the hell is Jonathan wearing a corset? And fishnets?_ _And more importantly, why the hell did I like it?_

There was a thick second of silence, three quick beats really, where Steve and Jonathan simply stared at one another, Steve frozen and wide-eyed on the floor and Jonathan standing above him, mouth agape. Both of them were processing the unwanted but painfully undeniable fact that they had just made out with one another.

Silently, Steve contemplated his option.

One: he could get up and run out of the room and drink a metric _shit tonne _of beer and try to forget this ever happened.

Two: they could talk about this like responsible, mature young adults and hopefully move forward from this.

_Or,_ his brain sung. _Option three: you knock Jonathan out with that lamp over there, giving him a concussion and hide all evidence of your steamy make-out session._

“_So,_” Jonathan finally whistled, breaking the awkward silence. “That was…a thing.”

“I’m not gay, Byers,” Steve instantly snapped back at him, pushing himself up off the floor.

Across from him, Jonathan raised a lone brow.

“I mean, the bulge poking through your pants says otherwise.”

Steve looked down.

Well,_ shit._

His face flushed red and Steve instantly grabbed for one of the pillows from the bed, covering his crotch. _God_, this was so embarrassing. First, he had made out with Jonathan, and now he had a hard-on. What was next? A date down at the Hawk?

“Who the hell are you supposed to be anyways?” Steve tried to divert, playing it cool. _Maybe if I just throw enough words out into the air, Jonathan will forget that we just played tonsil hockey and felt each other up_, he thought. Yeah—all he had to do was talk and keep talking and magically Jonathan’s memories would fade away. “A stripper?” he questioned.

“_Brad_,” Jonathan corrected, his lips pressed thin. “You know—from the Rocky Horror Picture Show?”

Steve squinted his eyes, giving Jonathan a once over again and frowned.

“Well, shit…I just thought you were some hot chick with a flat chest dressed in a sequin corset.”

Jonathan snorted.

“Remember the group costume, Steve?” Across from, Jonathan crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. _Well ain’t that a look_, Steve thought, biting his lip. Jonathan looked less than impressed. Slightly amused, but that crease between his brows was bigger than ever and highly exaggerated by the white face paint. And the way he was tapping his foot in those heels—oh boy. Jonathan was not happy. “I’m surprised you didn’t get it…with Robin dressed as Magenta and you going as Riff Raff and all,” Jonathan admitted. "Mind you, your costume kind of sucks. I didn't know it was you."

“What? Riff—_what_?” Steve asked, shooting him a quizzical look. Momentarily, he steered his attention back to his own costume. He dropped the pillow, his untimely erection having thankfully retreated, and frowned. He didn’t get it—nothing about wearing a suit made him riff-raff. “What the hell are you talking about, man—I’m just some butler in a monkey-suit.”

“_Steve_.” Jonathan shot him this _look_, like he couldn’t believe how utterly dense Steve could be. But now that Jonathan mentioned it, Robin _had _said something about them wearing matching costumes a few weeks ago—something about a horror show and like, hot chicks in high heels. Which Steve was _all_ over. But you could only imagine his disappointment when Robin showed up at his house a few days ago with a frumpy looking maid costume and a matching, oversized tuxedo. He told her he didn’t get it and Robin had merely rolled her eyes.

“You’re the pseudo butler, Steve,” she had told him. “Nancy said you definitely wouldn’t be up for being Dr. Frank n’ Furter.”

“I could totally be a doctor,” Steve had sniped back.

“_Suuuure_ you could,” Robin had smirked.

Back in the present, Steve blinked.

“So like…this butler,” Steve started off.

“Riff Raff,” Jonathan corrected.

“_Right_…Riff Raff,” Steve repeated. _What sort of name was “Riff Raff”? Steve_ thought dourly. Riff Raff the Butler? It sounded incredibly lame. “Is he at least a cool dude?”

Steve watched as Jonathan rolled his eyes, the look of mild irritation on his face morphing into pure annoyance. Yep—Jonathan was pissed. 

“You never actually watched the movie, did you?” the other boy sighed.

“I mean…”

“_Steve_.”

“Ok, _ok!_ So I never watched it. But Nancy and Robin seemed super excited about it, and like, you were down…so I just said fuck it, and agreed.”

“Oh my _god_,” Jonathan groaned, shaking his head. “So this _whole _time you thought you and Robin were dressed as a pair of servants and that me and Nancy were strippers?”

“What? _No_—I didn’t even know it was you! The mask remember? _Wait…_” Steve paused, his face screwing up into a look of confusion. “Nancy is dressed as a stripper too?”

Steve watched as Jonathan blinked dully a few times, as though his brain had temporarily short-circuited and gone on the fritz. Then, he let out another loud sigh, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

“I can’t do this,” Jonathan announced. Without his masquerade mask on, Steve realized that Jonathan was wearing a small amount of eye make-up. Just some eyeliner and mascara and of course, the pink painted lips. Also like, his legs…even knowing it was Jonathan, they still looked _good_ in fishnet tights and high heels. Like really good. His stomach grew warm again, and Steve groaned. What the hell was wrong with him?

“Hey—wait,” Steve tried, scrambling after him. _Keep talking,_ his brain sung. Keep talking and he’ll forget. Keep talking and maybe you’ll get to make out again.

Wait—_what?_

Maybe it was his own head that needed to be hit and concussed by the bedside lamp.

“Ok, so like…yeah I didn’t watch the movie,” Steve admitted sheepishly. “But maybe you could tell me about it?”

Jonathan, already halfway to the door, paused.

“Ok...like what?” the other said flatly. 

“Like…ok so you said you’re some guy named Brad. But why are you dressed in—,”—_a super hot corset and panty set with high heels and make up?_ his brain sung—“—uh, what you’re wearing,” he finished lamely.

Jonathan pursed his mouth to think, his brows knitting into finely drawn lines and _goddamn _Steve thought, the makeup really does look good on him.

“Brad’s this like…sexually repressed yuppie,” Jonathan started off slowly. “He’s supposed to marry Janet and you know...live this perfect, nuclear family, white-picket fence, 2.5 kids, company-car life.”

“Which totally explains the heels and fishnets,” Steve commented dryly.

“I’m getting there,” Jonathan sighed, rolling his eyes. “So Brad and Janet ended up stranded at this transvestite’s mansion, Dr. Frank n’ Furter. And long story short, they undergo a sexual awakening, with um…both of them sleeping with the doctor’s creation, Rocky.”

Steve blinked. Okay…so far, he was following along. Kind of.

“And Rocky is…?” Steve pried.

“This super buff Frankenstein-like creation. Only attractive. Like, he’s supposed to be made to look like the ideal man.”

“I…see.” _Keep talking, _his brain shouted. You’ve almost made it not weird again! “So…the butler that I’m dressed as—,”

“—Riff Raff,” Jonathan cut him off.

“Riff Raff,” Steve repeated, frowning. Like he cared about the name of the dumb butler he just discovered he was dressed as.

“He’s the mansions handyman,” Jonathan explained. “And the sister of Magenta. Hence why Robin suggested you do your costumes together.”

_It was all making sense now_, Steve thought. The maid outfit. The dusty looking tuxedo. Robin’s insistence that they get ready and arrive together…not that they wouldn’t have done that already, but still. 

“Ah,” Steve coughed. Then: “Does he do anything cool?”

Because if he was supposed to be dressed as some butler-character—correction: handyman—from a movie, then he’d better be a cool one.

Steve’s hopes of Riff-Raff being some awesome, stellar, the-best-goddamn-handyman-in-the-world who saves the day was smashed the moment he saw Jonathan squirm.

“_Uh_…well, he’s sort of a weirdo,” the other boy admitted, biting his lip. “And oddly intimate with his sister—obsessed, really—and later he torments Rocky? Oh, and he’s a murderer too.”

“So…that’s a ‘no’,” Steve stated flatly. Not cool. Not cool at all. Riff-Raff sounded like a freak!

“He’s one of the only characters who doesn’t wear heels,” Jonathan tried, looking oddly uncomfortable by the whole “you’re dressed as a demented butler” conversation, despite the fact that mere moments ago he had been strutting around in goddamn lingerie with no issue at all. “Nancy figured it was a safe choice for you.”

“I could have been Rocky!” Steve shot back hotly, crossing his arms. “He sounds cool. Or, at least he’s hot. _I’m_ hot.”

Jonathan snorted.

“Rocky wears nothing but a tiny golden speedo for most of the film,” Jonathan informed him sagely. “Think you could have handled it?”

Steve looked down at his dusty, torn up tuxedo and then back to Jonathan in his black shiny 4-inch heels that signalled a straight line of view up his oddly attractive legs to the tiny black panties that were hugging his incredibly tight ass.

_Shit_, Steve thought frantically. _Where the hell is that pillow I tossed earlier_?

It was too late and Steve watched mutedly as Jonathan rose a singular brow, his eyes focused in on the visible bulge that had re-emerged from the folds of Steve's pants.

Oddly enough, this time Jonathan just laughed.

“I’ll take that as ‘no’,” Jonathan smirked.

Steve’s eyes quickly darted left to the lamp near the bedside before he let out a long, drawn out sigh and deciding: _fuck it._

“Your legs look good in those heels, okay?” Steve snapped. “And your ass. In fact, all of you looks good in whatever the hell it is that you’re wearing, so just shoot me.” _Or, smash that lamp sitting right there over my head_, the voice in his head added. Either or. So long as he was six-feet under by tomorrow morning, he’d be _just_ fine.

Steve watched uncomfortably as Jonathan held back what seemed to be a deep burst of laughter, biting down on his lip _hard. _Or maybe he was just embarrassed—but Steve couldn’t really tell with all the white face makeup on.

“You sure you’re not a little gay?” Jonathan eventually asked and Steve fidgeted further. He could practically _hear_ the amusement dripping from Jonathan’s dumb voice now. This fucking asshole…

“Why? So you can go out and announce to the whole party downstairs that I’m into men? Cause I’m not,” Steve snapped hotly. Only David Hasselhoff. Sometimes.

Jonathan reached out and lightly punched him in the shoulder.

“_Ow_—,”

“—no, you dick. So we can make out some more.”

Oh. _Oh._

Steve felt his face grew hot as the warmth in his stomach surged forward like a popped balloon.

“I mean,” he tried a little awkwardly, if not quietly. “I might be a little gay. For you. In those heels.”

Across from him, Jonathan just shrugged.

“Good enough. So where were we?”

“The wall.”

The words pop out of Steve’s mouth automatically before he could even think, and _yep, _his brain sung, _you might be a little bit gay._

\---

Later, after he had corralled three drunken teenagers into the backseat of his car, Robin emerged from the house looking suitably annoyed.

“Finally!" she sighed, hopping into the passenger's seat. "Where the hell were you all night? Me and Nancy have been looking for you and Jonathan for over an hour and—" She paused, her eyes narrowing. "Steve: why is your face covered in pink lipstick?” 

Slipping the keys into the ignition, Steve simply shrugged. He wasn't really sure how to tell her, but he figured he should. At least then she could give him some advice.

"Made out with someone."

"Made out with who?" 

Steve smirked.

"Lets just say they have an incredible ass."

Next to him, Robin buckled up her seat belt and rolled her eyes.

"You can be such a perv' sometimes, you know that?"

Again, Steve just shrugged and started the car. Then he turned, checking to make sure the kids in the backseat were actually passed out.

"He was way more pervy than me, Rob'," Steve then said to her slyly. "He wanted to give me a blow job in the upstairs bedroom."

Next to him, Robin made an audible choking sound.

"_He?!_!"

Steve smoothly shifted the car into gear, pulling out from the roadside.

"Yep." 

"Steve Harrington, you better explain yourself right now or I'll—,"

From the backseat, one of the kids moaned and Steve shot Robin a pointed look, shushing her.

"It's no big deal, Robin," Steve whispered. "I just made out with Jonathan, that's all."

"JONATHAN BYERS?" Robin shrieked.

In the back seat, Dustin woke up and promptly proceeded to vomit all over the back of Steve's seat.

"_Great,_" Steve muttered, glaring at his best friend in the passenger seat who appeared as though she was going through a mini existential crisis. "You woke Dustin up and he puked on the leather."

"Who cares about that: we're so talking about this when we get home! " Robin whisper-shouted. "Like can you drive any slower?"

Steve grinned and pressed his foot down further on the accelerator. Tonight might have sucked, and tomorrow he'd be fighting to make Dustin clean up the backseat of his car, but he had to admit that it wasn't _all _that bad. 

Because making out with Jonathan in a corset and heels? Probably one of the hottest things he'd done, _ever_.

**Author's Note:**

> Jonathan and Nancy going as the floorshow versions of Brad and Janet from the RHPS is probably some dumb metaphor about their blossoming sexuality and also Steve is really dense sometimes. Oh, and the character Dustin was dressed as was Worf from Star Trek.


End file.
